Faces Like These
by State Hopper
Summary: Spike re-integrates himself back into English culture after the return of his soul. However this isn’t a cosy break, as our re-vamped-vamp begins to focus himself back onto the greater good, all with the help of an old acquaintance.


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Faces like these. By Ardy-Bo-Bardy  
  
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Prologue.  
  
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Disclaimer- I own nothing in this story which is, otherwise, Angel or Buffy related.  
  
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Ludlow commented in 1640: The Burren (Ireland) is a savage land, yielding not enough water to drown a man, nor tree to hang a man or soil to bury him!  
  
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Upon the desolate headland of the Burren, sheep mingled amongst archaic ruins and craggy stonewalls like the warring smoke of men. There, escaping the erratic Pacific, lethal gusts tore their way down into the vast limestone gullies of County Clare, where there were no trees to hang a man, nor water to drown him. It was cold, a piercing iciness that drove at your very core. However, not all travellers were as unique as ours.   
  
Down by an embankment off an old unpaved road, a small ember flashed and burned to chase away the darkness. Its tiny little body hanging rather delicately within the gloom, so much so that fairies seemed almost rational. But nothing as fine as a fairy could ever hope to endure the spite of an Irish winter. Like many things, no more use was found in the smoky little light, and so it was flicked into a nearby puddle. One of many which dotted the barely useable roadway. Grabbing his duffel bag from the old Dodge, the car was kicked for good measure, before Our Traveller ultimately began his long pilgrimage back toward the civilised world.   
  
For what had felt like a lifetime in many, he'd been in the company of skyscrapers and billboards. Nodding to the suits and agreeing with 'the man', simply dwelling where no one should really dwell. Humming along with the wind, it sung it's way through the ruins and megalithic formations. Blowing the man's coat about as if encouraging him to fly. Not all of us receive the privilege of good friends, and yet when we do, the very first is always the most memorable. Their presence remaining with you no matter which continent you happened to be upon, even when that friend was no longer of this plane.  
  
Pausing for his fifth cigarette of the hour, Our Traveller gave a relieved sigh as his lighter echoed the approach of an engine. Out from the distance, a pair of unsteady yellow lights wove their way toward him. Bobbing across the uneven land and winding their way through the stony dividers. Presently he was standing about thirty miles west of Turlough, a small town off the coast of Ballyvaghan Bay. Stepping back from the road, crushing a patch of purple Cranesbill in his wake, Our Traveller flung out an arm.   
  
Grumbling like a wintry old man, the dusty blue Citroen shuddered menacingly toward him. The very bonnet looking as if about ready to lunge open with only one simple intent. To murder, devour and retain only the nicest parts for some vulgar hood ornament. Shielding his eyes of light, Our Traveller stooped and squinted as the car's misty window was forcefully wound down. Heeding the clouds which had started to spit, both men lowered their heads into line sight of the other.   
  
"Ye goin' to Bealaclugga?" The driver inquired. "I'm only goin' to Bealaclugga." Feeling his stomach twist upon sight of the rear-a-vision mirror, Our Travller regained his height. With a brief glance back down the road, he dropped his head again.   
  
"Like I gotta choice." He squeezed the window frame.  
  
"Ah, English." The driver mused "Well ye betta go on an hop in so." The man adjusted his sufficient belly from against the steering wheel. Wrenching the door ajar, the vehicle moaned in protest to the added weight. "T'row that back in there" the driver suggested in acknowledgement to his passengers duffel bag. Doing as suggested, with little but a word, the car began to resume it's journey.   
  
The vehicle was overly warm, yet perhaps stuffy was a word more appropriate to the situation. To be blunt, the area was far to small for such a hefty man. Pressing himself closer to the door, till almost at one with it, Our Traveller further tried to ignore the dangling rosary beads. It was blatantly obvious to him, that the stoney spheres were quiet aware to the sickley miscomfort they induced. Removing a pack of 'Camel' from his right pocket, he cupped the lighter to his mouth. Exhaling a deep breath, before quietly shifting an eye to the man at his left. He was about forty, give or take. Gray spreading from his temples, to the hairless patch atop his head. He was dressed for the cold, a pair of gloves and scarf resting in the space between them. Sliding the pack back within his pocket, Our Traveller cracked the window an inch.  
  
"How far is it?" he gestured with his smoke.  
  
"Bout' t'irty…" Glancing at his passenger for a moment, then once again, both shoulders rose with an exaggerated breath. "Near full I'd say. Surely ye wouldn't miss one?" he slid his eyes back to the way ahead.   
  
Ten minutes went by and still there was no sign of the town in question, not even a house or road sign. Flicking his cigarette butt out the window, the driver proceeded to change gears in preperation for the decent before them. Glancing at his watch with tense attention, Our Traveller cussed for the sixth time that night.  
  
"Ye got somewhere to be son? It's Sunday, day of rest." The man observed as they descended into the gully.  
  
"As they say old man, 'no rest for the wicked'." The driver huffed in both amusement and annoyance.   
  
"True." he paused. "Tell, why're ye all the way out here? An' at this ungodly hour?"  
  
"Passing through." Our Traveller replied with disinterest. "Bloody car gave up."  
  
"Ah car's do that." He nodded "Hear give us your name son? Don't fancy calling ye English till we reach town." The driver itched his nose in question. Fittingly and with rather apt timing, a patch of tiny lights began to emerge from below the hill. Dotting the endless, black, landscape like the dull Christmas lights remembered from 1984.   
  
"Spike" he stated preoccupied. "That's Bealaclugga yeah?"  
  
"Spike? What name is Spike? What mother would call her boy Spike." He mumbled to himself. "What's your 'Christian' name son? Given name."  
  
"Forget it." Spike shook off. "Bealaclugga?" he repeated with a sharp motion to the window. Pausing a moment, as if in deliberation, the driver nodded his head.  
  
"That it is English."  
  
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TBC   
  
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End file.
